Last night we had a fantastically loud thunder storm sweep through the valley.

I could see it coming when I left work. The sky had grown dark and surly, with black clouds sending veils of silver rain onto the hilltops all around.

By the time I pulled in the driveway at home, the wind was whipping through the dogwood tree, scattering it's white petals across the freshly mowed yard. The cats were peeking out from beneath the porch as I walked up the steps. Their afternoon ritual of spying on the quail in the brush pile out back was thwarted.

I curled up on the overstuffed chair by the windows, and watched as the sky took on an eery glow from within. The kind that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck, anticipating the first flash of white lightning from the core.

It wasn't long before my anticipationis were rewarded. The sky lit up, and I counted the heartbeats between the lightning and the thunder. Four beats. One enormous thunder clap, bouncing off one mountain after another.

I could smell the rain before it hit. That earthy, pungent fragrance of too-dry dirt finally being quenched. Of orchards and old leaves being washed clean. Of flowers being shaken on their stems. And I saw the curtain of rain coming from the West, hiding everything behind it in a gauzy haze.

It was an immediate downpour. The metal roof hammered with the onslaught, funneling the water to the corners of the house where it cascaded in gushing waterfalls.

I opened the kitchen window to hear it better. The wind blew rain in through the screen. It felt crisp and cool, as clean as any early summer rain could be. I wanted to bottle that smell, capture the feeling, and keep it going all night long.

I closed my eyes and listened to the rain. Sensed the lightning. Waited for the thunder. It had a life of it's own, with a pulse that pattered on the metal roof long into the evening.

I now know why Hendry David Thoreau said "The bluebird carries the sky on his back..."

As I was sitting on an overlook high above the valley, my husband was off in the distance photographing wild lupine against the outline of some trees scorched in a forest fire. It was another postcard blue sky day.

I was looking across at the jagged mountain peaks, wondering if the bears were out and roaming yet, when I thought I saw a portion of the sky move.

As quick as a glance, I spotted a fluttering of blue drop from the canopy above and land on a bare branch nearby. A mountain bluebird!! The kind that is solid sky blue, from breast to wings, with only the faintest little clouds of white showing up near it's legs.

I had never seen one here in Washington before. There are bluejays, of course... but this delicate specimen was certainly nothing like it's sqwaking, raucous cousins. It sat quietly on the branch for several minutes - taking flight for another perch only when my dog decided to romp too close to the tree.

And so I smiled and looked back out across the valley. Such a gift seeing poetry come to life right in front of my eyes. A piece of the sky, delivered on silent wings.

Making a mental list of errands that needed running, I ducked under the blooming dogwood tree and was about to get into my Jeep when I realized I hadn't checked the mailbox yet.

I glanced over my shoulder to the plain green box jutting up off the rock wall by the road. Ehh... why bother. If there is something in there, it will most likely be bills, junk mail, or at the very most... an issue of Rolling Stone.

So I backed out of the driveway and headed down the road without giving it another thought.

When I finally came back home, I hoisted up the grocery sacks to avoid the inevitable dog-sniffing, and jangled my keys into the lock. But low and behold, when I went to deposit my burden on the kitchen table... there was a good sized parcel perched there, sent to me from someone named Yogi Tea.

After pondering who in this world I knew with such a peculiar name, I realized (admittedly a bit slowly...) that it wasn't a person, but a business who had sent me a mystery package.

I deftly sliced open the wrapping tape, and when I folded back the cardboard, the scent of chai and raspberry engulfed me. I pulled out a sheet of fine paper with asian embellishments across the top in crimson. "Congratulations!" it read. "Please enjoy sampling this selection of Yogi Tea."

Well now, how about that?? I dug into the package and pulled out six full size boxes of tea! Rasberry Leaf, Egyptian Licorice Mint, India Spice Chai, African Redbush Peach, and Raspberry Ginger. There was a vague teasing memory of signing up for some free samples of tea... online? In a shop? I couldn't recall. But apparently I won, in a big way! I'd be set in the tea department for some weeks with this little cache!

So, lining the boxes up on the table, I felt quite chuffed at the unexpected perk to my day. Nothing like some fragrant tea arriving out of the blue to make me hum through a smile.

Never underestimate an unopened mailbox.



"Something opens our wings. Something makes boredom and hurt disappear. Someone fills the cup in front of us: we taste only sacredness." -Rumi-

Whenever I am heading down the road en route to the Oregon Coast, I have a deep sense of 'going home'. Strange, really - as I've never lived there... and in fact am quite satisfied with the place I've dug my roots in. But going to the ocean feels like returning to a different sort of place. Something deeper in the recognition I feel when I finally step out of the Jeep and onto the hard packed sand of the Pacific Ocean. That's why I have dubbed this place my 'Touchstone'.

The trek down to the coast was a blur. We were due in Oceanside, near Netarts, around 3:00 p.m. so that I could take pictures of my brother and his bride-to-be before the nuptuals. My poor husband witnessed a wide eyed leadfoot of a wife as I sailed down I-5 South, trying to shave precious minutes off our 7 hour journey. Of course, once I was on the narrow, winding Highway 101 - that proved to be even more frightening!

The usual pleasure I take in seeing familiar sights on the initial drive down was forsaken for pure tunnel vision. I saw nothing but the road ahead of me, and imagined my brother suited up in a tuxedo looking at his watch and wondering when his baby sister was going to arrive, Nikon FM10 in hand. That precise scene came true at about 4:00. With the wedding starting at 5:00 - all we could do was shrug helplessly and decide to take pictures after the ceremony.

With that, we raced the few miles back to the condo that was rented for family so that we could shower and change into our dress clothes. I hardly had time to gape at the gorgeous garden tub centered in the middle of huge windows overlooking an ocean cliff. I had to settle for a quick rinse in the plain shower tucked around the corner - a far cry from relaxing in luxurious sandalwood bubbles and gazing out at the Pacific blue.

At last, we took off for the tiny chapel on the hillside. My brother looked dapper and a bit tense as he was trying to find a CD of acoustic guitar he specifically wrote and played for his bride to walk down the aisle to. Unable to find it, he thrust a camcorder into my hand, showed me where to hit 'play' on the sound system and raced out the door to find the missing music. I was now the official media girl of this little ceremony!

As the clock ticked off the minutes to 5:00 - he finally showed up looking dismayed. He couldn't find the CD. Quick arrangements were made with the pianist to play something else when the bride took center stage... and my brother grabbed his guitar case from a side room. He would still be able to play the other song he wrote for her, accompanied by a singer.

When he snapped open the case, his eyes lit up. There, nestled against the felt beneath the neck of his Gibson Hummingbird - was a shiny silver CD. Cheers all around! Things would go as planned. And then, in a matter of seconds... he slipped the CD into the sound system, queued me up with a nod, and away we went into the ceremony....


To be continued.

In short....

There was little wind, and deep blue skies that had not yet been bleached by summer.

The green throated hummingbirds had claimed the five mile hike through lush forest to Cape Lookout for their own, and one had to watch carefully to avoid stepping on the banana slugs. The whales made cameo appearances at the Cape Meares lighthouse, when the sun was high enough to turn the seawater translucent.

We stuffed our pockets with a king's ransom of agates and sand dollars, feeling like rich thieves as we climbed up over the dunes towards our temporary home.

I sat on hardpacked sand, entranced by the dazzle of gold light on the waves. It wasn't until evening when I realized the sun had left it's mark in blushing pink across the bridge of my nose. Apparently it was set on resurrecting the freckles of my childhood.

And at night, the moon gave just enough light to turn everything into unimaginable variances of midnight blue, broken only by the sparks of starlight trapped in an invisible fisher's net.

"A man tells so many stories, that he becomes the stories. They live on after him, and in that way he becomes immortal." Big Fish